


Her Hand In Marrige

by breakdancingsigma (hetawholockvengerstuck)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Mild Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetawholockvengerstuck/pseuds/breakdancingsigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Ivan decides to hold a contest to choose a husband for his older sister, Princess Katerina. When she meets Prince Matthew, Katerina thinks she may finally have found love. But what if he doesn't win?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and reposted from ff.net, where I have discontinued it.
> 
> In addition to being an AU, this is also an alternate history fic. This is why there is a king of America and a prince of Canada, and also why an Emperor of China would be betrothed to a King of Russia.
> 
> You may now proceed.

In the throne room of his ornate palace in Moscow, King Ivan of Russia waited as his older sister, the princess Katerina, approached his throne. Her skirts swept the floors, tripping her every so often on the long trek from the double doors to the raised thrones.

She curtsied to her brother. “You asked for me?”

Ivan smiled reassuringly. “Da, I did.” He motioned to the guards in the room; they left their posts and exited the room.

“It is time to talk about your future, sister,” he said. Beside him, in a smaller throne, their younger sister, Natalia, tapped her fingers repeatedly on the armrest.

“My…my future?” Katerina stuttered.

“We must find you a suitable husband, sister. You are nearly past a marriageable age.”

“But I haven’t found anyone—“

Ivan brought a fist down on his armrest; the sound it made echoed throughout the room, silencing Katerina.

“Enough! You are the oldest of the Braginsky family. I am betrothed to the Emperor of China; Natalia, who is six years your junior, is to marry the Prince of Lithuania. You alone have failed to secure a marriage. I have humoured you enough! You are no longer in a position to make this choice. I will find you a husband.”

Just as suddenly as his mood had soured, it changed back. Ivan’s smile returned, and Katerina felt marginally better.

“Please, brother, I want to marry someone I love.”

“I know. But love is not easy to find.” Ivan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yet…there are many unmarried royals. Any one of them would make a good alliance partner. How to choose?” He stood up and began to pace the perimeter of the raised pedestal. “How to choose? Ah ha!” He spun around. “How is this? I will hold a contest. It has worked before, has it not? I will invite all the eligible men in Europe and Asia to a feast and a contest. The winner will receive Katerina’s hand in marriage! It is a good idea, no?”

Natalia applauded enthusiastically, always willing to support her beloved older brother.

Katerina fidgeted with her gown. “You mean like an archery contest?”

Ivan shook his head. “No, no. More than that. There will be many trials; only the best for you. All the details will be explained. Now I must start with the invitations! You are both dismissed.”

Natalia stood up and walked with Katerina out the door. When they had put enough distance between the dark throne room and themselves, they stopped; they were in one of the many bright, snow-white halls with the large windows that let in the sun. Katerina sat herself down on one of the window seats and burst into tears.

“What’s wrong, sister?” Natalia asked, seating herself next to her sister. “Brother is right; you must marry. And he has devised a wonderful plan.”

“But I won’t know the winner! What if I don’t love him? What if I hate him?” Katerina covered her face with her hands.

Awkwardly, Natalia reached out to Katerina and pulled her close, letting Katerina’s head rest on her shoulder. “It will work out. You must trust Ivan. He won’t let just anyone marry you.”

Katerina nodded and dried her eyes.

* * *

“A contest? It’s just like the fairytales!” Katerina’s maid, Victoire, clasped her hands and sighed. “I wish I was a princess. 

“I wish I could switch places with you, Victoire,” Katerina said.

Victoire shook her head. “No. I’m was a slave, remember? No one should ever have to experience that.”

Katerina blinked away tears. It always pained her to dwell on the circumstances that had brought her best friend to her. Victoire had been living peacefully with her family on Seychelles when, at the age of four, she had been kidnapped by pirates and sailed across the ocean, passing through many hands and enduring many stone-hearted masters until she came to Greece four years later. There she waited for auctioning on the black market, the only African slave in a pen full of white women who treated her like scum. Occasionally, children would sneak into the tents where they were kept on dares; Victoire had a hazy memory of their faces. Eventually, she had been auctioned off to a vacationing Russian merchant, who traveled home with his purchase and presented her as a gift (in lieu of taxes) to the king. Victoire had grown up with Katerina, becoming more of a friend than a servant, but a servant nonetheless. 

Victoire took Katerina’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t cry, Rina. It’ll turn out fine. It’ll be just like the stories you told me, you’ll see! You’ll meet the prince of your dreams and fall in love, and you’ll live happily ever after.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Surer than I’ve ever been.”

* * *

A month passed; invitations were sent out, preparations were made, and the palace became a bustling centre of activity as food was shipped in, paintings were rehung, bedrooms were made up, the grounds were made spotless, and extra servants were hired. In addition, Ivan received many mysterious packages, which were labeled “Do Not Open” and “Contest”. He received them in his rooms.

Finally, the big night arrived when the kings, princes, dukes and knights of Europe and Asia pulled up in their carriages to the palace gates. Servants went to work unloading possessions and welcoming the royals. The guests themselves lined up to be admitted to the ballroom, where they were greeted by Ivan himself.

Behind a floret-patterned curtain, Katerina and Natalia observed the guests. Katerina could see Victoire managing the buffet, ready to serve slices of cake to hungry visitors. As the ballroom began to fill up, she looked at her sister with jealousy.

Natalia, despite being much prettier than her sister, had always been expected to marry last. Her personality tended to drive potential suitors away, much to the dismay of the king. Whereas Ukraine was so plain that she was often mistaken for a servant, Natalia was the picture of royalty, and she often received attention she didn’t care for.

But then Prince Toris came to visit. He was enamored with Natalia from the moment he saw her, and courted her for years, maintaining a respectful distance and only gradually approaching her. When he’d asked to marry her, he hadn’t gone over Natalia’s head by asking Ivan; he’d asked _her_ if he could ask Ivan for her hand in marriage, and, to everyone’s surprise, she’d accepted.

Katerina had always dreamed of finding love like that, but no suitor had ever paid her any mind, much less given her the chance to fall in love. And now, here she was, hiding behind a curtain as she watched the royalty of Europe and Asia filter in.

Beside her, Natalia kept up a running commentary. “That’s King Arthur of England. He’s a bit insane; he thinks he can talk to fairies. And behind him is the King of France. He’s quite possibly worse than Arthur. Oh, that one is King Gilbert of Prussia, and his brother, Prince Ludwig of Germany. That’s funny, I thought I’d heard a rumor that the prince was in love with Princess Feliciana. Speaking of which, there she is now, with her sister and their protector, the King of Spain, Antonio. And of course you’ve heard of the Duke of Austria and his wife—or ex-wife, I suppose. Well, technically they were never married, since the union was never consummated. The Lady Elizaveta is beloved by her people, but the Austrian nobility are ready to get rid of her. Maybe the duke is hoping to pass her off on someone else. There’s the Sultan of Turkey, and the Prince of Greece…he looks like a commoner! The Princess of Belgium and her brother the King of the Netherlands, that famed knight from Switzerland and his little sister, the King of Poland, all those Scandinavian princes and kings, and—wait a minute!”

Katerina brought herself back from her half-daydream. Her brother was now smiling at two approaching young men, one getting pulled behind the other. Even from where she was standing, across the room, Katerina could feel the cold, dark aura that had made Ivan famous throughout the world.

“What's wrong?”

Natalia gave her sister a confused look which quickly passed. “Right, you aren’t as embroiled in politics. The taller man over there is King Alfred of America. He and Ivan haven’t been on the best of terms for a while. He most certainly wasn’t invited.”

“And who’s the other one?”

“Him? Oh, that’s Prince Matthew of Canada. Not much to look at, is he?”

* * *

“Ivan! Great place you have here!” Alfred clapped Ivan on the shoulder. It was like slapping a rock. “My invite must have been lost in the mail. Lucky thing, I was talking to Arthur about trade embargos and he mentioned your little party! So I decided to come anyway. And I brought my brother, too.” Alfred reached behind him and grabbed the escaping Matthew, squeezing his shoulder. “I don’t believe you two have met?”

“We haven’t,” Ivan said, his icy grin still plastered to his face. Matthew bowed politely.

“A contest, huh?” Alfred leaned on his brother. “I’ve been looking for a wife. Matthew, too, so we both want to enter. Of course, we don’t have invitations to present, but that’s not a problem, right?”

Here Ivan faced a dilemma. He hated Alfred, didn’t want him anywhere near his sisters. But at the same time, their two countries were on the brink of war. An alliance would fix all that. If Ivan didn’t allow Alfred to enter, he might declare war then and there, which would really put a damper on Katerina’s wedding day. If he let him enter, though, he ran the risk of having to marry his sister off to his worst enemy.

Ivan glanced at the prince, who was bearing the weight of his brother without audible complaint. The young man’s face conveyed an apology.

The Russian sighed. He would just have to hope that, if one of these two young men won, it would be the prince.

“There is no problem. Welcome.”

Alfred grinned and made a beeline for the buffet, dragging his brother, just as the final guests arrived.

“Yao,” Ivan said, taking his betrothed’s hand and planting a soft kiss on it. “Welcome!”

The Emperor of China smiled. “Thank you for inviting me, Ivan. It will be a pleasure to see my future sister-in-law’s wedding. I understand that tradition forbids you from marrying until your older sibling has done so?”

Ivan nodded. Then he turned his attention to the young men and women behind Yao.

“I would like you to meet my family. My little brothers, Kiku, Soo Yong, and Kaoru”—the boys bowed respectfully—“and my sisters, Lien and Meimei.” The girls, too, bowed.

“A pleasure. Now, if you will excuse me, I must make my speech before everyone is too full of food.”

* * *

New thrones had been erected on the stage in the ballroom. Ivan stood in front of these as Natalia sat in the smallest one, hands folded neatly in her lap. Gradually, the room quieted down.

“Friends!” Ivan spread his arms. “You know, of course, why you were invited. You have all been offered the chance to contend for the hand of Princess Katerina, my sister. To win her hand, you must compete in a series of trials.

“There are ten trials in all. Within each trial, points will be awarded to the highest-placing competitors. First place will receive ten points, second will receive eight, third will receive five, and fourth will earn two points.”

“I know that not all of you here wish to try your luck. Because of this, if you wish to compete, please find me during the banquet. I will record your name. Now, before we begin the festivities, allow me to introduce you to the prize of the contest, Princess Katerina of Ukraine!”

On this cue, and to great applause, Katerina stepped out from behind the curtain and approached her throne. She curtsied to the ballroom and, as she had been told to do, remained standing. She tried her best not to blush as she felt so many pairs of eyes looking at her…

…chest.

She fought back tears; she couldn’t cry, not now, not in front of everybody.

Why? Why was it that everyone always looked at her chest? Wasn’t it common courtesy to look a woman in the face, no matter how plain she was? In desperation, Katerina glanced around the room, trying to find someone, _anyone_ , who wasn’t entranced by her body.

She finally made eye contact. Across the room, standing unobtrusively by the buffet, was the young man Natalia had pointed out as the Prince of Canada. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue—or perhaps they were purple? They seemed to change in the light. He realized that their eyes had met, and he looked away on instinct—but not at her chest.

Then the applause died down, and Katerina took her seat. Ivan declared the party underway, and offered his sisters an arm to escort them to the ballroom floor.

Once there, Ivan left to find his betrothed and to mingle with his guests. Natalia ducked away somewhere, leaving Katerina alone. On a whim, she headed for the buffet, and the place where she had last seen Prince Matthew.

He wasn’t there, but Victoire was. She was handing out cake at record speed, managing to keep each slice picture-perfect. But Katerina noticed that some of the guests made extra sure not to touch Victoire.

She walked up to her friend at the first lull in cake-getters. Victoire was in her element; despite the racism that remained in the hearts of the few, every guest had, without fail, thanked her politely for the cake. Victoire might wish to be a princess, but she loved to help people.

Wiping her hands on a towel, Victoire grinned at Katerina. “You were wonderful! You looked so regal and beautiful up there, I almost didn’t recognize you! And I think you made a great choice on the dress.” Victoire motioned to the white silk and blue ribbons.

Katerina sniffed. “I don’t ever want to do that again.”

“But you’ll have to! Surely, during the trials, you’ll have to attend. They’ll be competing for you.”

“Excuse me, may I please have some cake, if it’s not too much trouble?”

Both women turned their heads to see Prince Matthew. He smiled at them.

“Of course, sir. Here you go, sir,” Victoire said, serving up another perfect slice.

The prince accepted the cake graciously. “Thank you, madam.” He took a bite. “This is delicious. Have you tried it?”

Victoire shook her head. “I’m not to eat anything here until after the party, sir. The food is for the guests.'

“That’s unfair. What about you, princess?” His voice, already soft and respectful, became even more so. The slightest hint of red colored his cheeks. What Katerina noticed most about him, though, was how he looked her in the eyes.

“I-I haven’t,” she said, her ability to speak suddenly trying to flee.

Suddenly, King Alfred came from behind and threw himself playfully on his brother’s back. The plate of cake flew out of the prince’s hands. They all watched with suppressed horror as it flew through the air towards the Prince of Greece.

At the last moment, he turned around, caught sight of the cake, and, with a swiftness that his outward drowsiness offset, reached up and plucked the plate out of the air.

“C’mon, Mattie, don’t hog the cake! I want some too!” Alfred leaned over Matthew’s shoulder. Victoire cut the king a slice.

As Alfred bounded away, Matthew rubbed his temples. “I’m so sorry about him. He just doesn’t _think_ sometimes. Would you mind terribly if I had another piece of cake?”

“Not at all,” Victoire said.

“Thank you. And good night, ladies.” Matthew bowed to each of them in turn and walked off.

“He seems like a nice one,” Victoire whispered. “Much more civilized than his brother.”

Someone tapped Victoire on the shoulder. She spun around and found herself face-to-face with the Greek prince. She stepped back hastily and curtsied.

“I’m sorry about the cake sir,” she said.

“It’s okay,” he said sleepily. He reached over and took a fork from the pile, then sampled the cake. “Mm. Would you like some?”

“I couldn’t!”

He smiled and held the plate out to her. “Go ahead.”

Giggling to herself, Katerina left Victoire and went in search of her sister.

* * *

“Greetings, King Gilbert,” Ivan said. “I take it you are here to enter the contest?”

The Prussian laughed. “Nah, it’s not really my thing. No offense to your sister, but I have bigger fish to fry. However,” he said, motioning to the taller blond man beside him, “Ludwig is entering. Ludwig?”

The prince was staring off across the ballroom to where the Italian princesses were chatting with the girl from Switzerland. It took a few tries to get his attention.

“Yes, yes, I will be competing.”

“Good! Then I’ll have you recorded. Thank you.”


	2. Archery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, the story is in First Person POV, told by Ukraine.
> 
> This is not one of my better chapters. Basically all plot advancement. I promise to be more inventive in the future.

I wake up from dreams of marriage. Nightmares, really. Every dream was about myself, in a church, standing next to a faceless man. As the dream repeated, it got scarier: there was no one else in the church; then there were a few bloodstains on the wall; then it wasn’t a church, but a prison cell, covered in mildew, and I wasn’t in a white dress. I was wearing rags, chained to a wall, and the faceless man was no longer just my husband-to-be. He was my jailer.

It’s no wonder that I’m drenched in sweat and breathing hard.

There’s a knock at the door, and Victoire enters. She lights a lamp, then crosses the room on silent, bare feet to throw open the curtains and let the sunlight in. In daylight, my dreams seem silly; there are no faceless men competing for my hand. But dreams like this are not literal. I know what caused it.

So, apparently, does Victoire, even though I don’t tell her what I dreamt about. She sits beside me and begins to rub my back. “It’s okay, Rina. Whatever happens, you’ll be okay.”

And I believe her.

* * *

After everyone has been provided with a large breakfast, Ivan takes center stage again to announce the first trial. 

“It is a bit cliché, I’m afraid. We shall start out with the standard archery test. Scores will be given based on your performance, and the four contestants with the highest scores will receive points for winning the trial. If you have brought your own bow, you are permitted to use it. We will provide equipment to those who need it. In half an hour, please be ready at the archery field.”

* * *

The outdoor thrones have been moved to the field, and the spectators line the edges of the fence that have been put up in the night to protect the archery range. The contestants are lined up and ready to start the trial.

Ivan stands up. “By random selection, I have created a list. You shall compete in this order.” He looks at the list. “King Arthur of England!”

The Englishman steps forward with a bow unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It is longer than most, along with various other differences. Its wielder wears an extremely serious expression.

At the sight of the bow, the king of France hisses; in response, King Arthur turns to his longtime rival and extends only his middle finger. The German boys have to hold back the enraged Frenchman.

“What was that?” I ask Natalia in a whisper.

“I’ve heard about it,” Natalia says. “The English have invented what they call a ‘longbow’, to penetrate the armor worn by the French. When the French learned about this, they took to cutting off the middle finger of any captured longbowmen, so the archers wouldn’t be able to shoot correctly. In response, the British taunt the French with their middle finger. Apparently, it means ‘I’ll pluck you’, which is basically another term for ‘I can still kill you’.”

“Oh.”

King Arthur turns around and fluidly takes aim. His eyes are narrowed; he exhales, inhales, exhales again; and fires his first arrow.

It hits dead center.

Then he repeats the process a second time. It splits the first arrow in half and goes clear through the target.

As the crowd applauds, Ivan laughs heartily. “It would seem we’ve found our winner! Unless someone else can do better, of course.” Then he projects his voice. “Fifty points for King Arthur of England!”

It’s now Prince Ludwig’s turn. He holds the bow awkwardly; clearly, this man is used to handling a sword. I feel embarrassed just watching him.

The first shot hits the outer edges. The next hits closer.

“Prince Ludwig receives 11 points!”

Then the Greek prince has his turn. He simply loads an arrow on, misses, tries again, misses, and then bows to my family and I. Zero points, but he doesn’t seem particularly upset about it. It almost seems like he wasn’t trying.

The contestants continue, with varying degrees of success. King Alfred receives 45 points, and Prince Matthew receives 35. I find myself holding my breath every time someone fires a shot.

When the tournament has finished, my brother once again stands up. “Thank you all for participating!

“Now, to award the points. First place, and ten points, goes to King Arthur!”

“Second place, and eight points, goes to King Alfred!”

Forced applause.

“Third place, and five points, is awarded to the Sultan of Turkey!”

More polite applause.

“And finally, two points goes to Prince Matthew of Canada!”

There is a brief moment of confusion, as the spectators look around for the prince, even though he’s in plain view. But the applause duly follows.

The contestants bow and filter off the archery range.

* * *

Back in my rooms, I try to let Victoire’s words calm me, but I’m too worried.

“It was only one test, my lady, surely he’ll pull forward in something else.”

“But what if he doesn’t? I don’t want to marry that Englishman!”

“Look on the bright side! You probably won’t have to marry the King of Poland or anything.”

I sigh. “I just wish my brother would let me choose my own husband. I hate feeling like an object.”

Victoire leaves me and returns, holding a jewelry box. “Madam, I do believe we should get you ready for supper. You’ll be expected to sit with the men. Is there anything in particular that you would like to wear?”

“You choose, Victoire.”

She smiles and vanishes into the closet, returning with a bright orange ball gown, with billowing skirts and cream-colored lace at the sleeves and throat. It will cover my chest in a way that doesn’t accent it. Victoire always knows what’s best for me.

When she has helped me into my dress, Victoire finds a string of pearls and hangs it around my neck. She finishes off the accessories with a matching bracelet and a beige fan. Then she applies a light covering of powder to hide any blushing. Finally, when my hair has been brushed and braided into circles on my head, Victoire carefully places the tiara on my head.

“You look beautiful,” she says, clasping her hands, as she always does.

* * *

I arrive in time to be escorted into the dining hall by my brother. Many, but not all, of the guests have already found their places at the table. Ivan, of course, will sit at the head of the table; Natalia will take the other end, with Toris at her side, surrounded by the emperor and his family. Usually, she sits on Ivan’s left, and I sit on his right. Today, Natalia’s spot is filled by King Arthur. Next to him is Sadiq of Turkey, glaring down the table at the Greek prince. I glance at the place card on my left as I sit down, and I have to hold in my panic: I’m sitting next to Alfred.

I sneak a peek at the card next to Alfred’s. It belongs to his brother. One place separates us.

I long to swap the cards, but there are too many eyes. Someone would see, and I have no good excuse for showing preference. This isn’t up to me anymore. All I can do is send a pleading look in Ivan’s direction.

The heavy wooden chair scrapes across the stone floor, and the American plops unceremoniously into his place. He knocks the place card over and doesn’t bother to pick it up.

I look over at Ivan again, and I see a hint of annoyance cross his face. Here, in his kingdom, Ivan wears the crown. But Alfred has chosen to wear _his_ crown, too. I wonder if he realizes how rude the gesture is.

In contrast to his brother, Prince Matthew takes his seat like a shadow. He moves the chair as quietly as possible and is very careful not to jostle the perfectly-laid settings. He folds his hands in his lap and dips his head to Ivan and myself.

As soon as everyone is seated, servants come sweeping in with trays of food and jugs of drink.  I hear a few exclamations as the extravagant feast is laid before the guests. A roast pig is placed in front of King Alfred.

“Man, you really know how to eat!” he says, before reaching over and cutting himself an enormous chunk of meat. He overfills his plate with all sorts of food, and fills his goblet to the brim with wine. Beside him, Matthew rubs his forehead, clearly embarrassed.

“Alfred, you can go back for seconds. There’s no need to pile it on your plate.”

“You kidding?” the king says through a mouthful of food. “Someone else would’ve taken it!”

I struggle to keep my face composed as I look away. Accidentally, I catch King Arthur’s eye.

“You look dazzling, madam,” he says. He smiles at me, and I have to wrench my attention away from his large eyebrows to answer.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

I’m saved from further conversation by Ivan. He claps the Englishman on the back—hard enough to make the man jolt forward and spill his champagne—and says, “That was an excellent performance out there!” He motions for a servant to clean up the spill. “I had heard of the wonders of your longbow, but I never imagined it would be quite like that.”

“Thank you, Ivan, but it can’t all be put down to the weapon.”

At first, I expect my brother to correct King Arthur. But then I remember: it is perfectly normal for kings to address each other by their first name.

I, on the other hand, have to be careful. Already I am addressing them by first name in my head; to do so out loud would be disrespectful.

Arthur looks at Alfred. “I wasn’t expecting _you_ to do so well, Alfred.” Is it just me, or does the Englishman’s voice contain a hint of a sneer?

Alfred is in the middle of chewing a large portion of roast pig, but he answers anyway. “You’re not the only one with expert archers. I happen to—“

He stops midsentence, his gaze pointing towards the other end of the table. I can’t tell who or what he’s looking at. Natalia? Toris? One of the petite Asian girls? Whatever it is, he finishes chewing his food and swallows before he resumes his sentence.

“—happen to have hired a master archer to instruct me. Any good competition has an archery match, right?”

Arthur snorts. “Your tutor must have been a saint.”

Matthew begins to choke on his water. Alfred merely reaches over and slaps his brother on the back to clear his airway. After that, I swear I hear the prince laughing quietly.

For the first time during the meal, Prince Lukas of Norway—who is seated beside the sultan—speaks. “Your Highness, what will the next trial be?”

Ivan beams. “I’m glad you asked!” He stands up again. “Attention, please!”

All talking ceases.

“I’m sure you’re all eager to know what the next trial is. You need not wait any longer. Tomorrow night, a masquerade ball shall be held. Come to the ballroom at eight o’clock, dressed your finest. I believe I mentioned this event in the invitation, but if, for any reason, you did not come prepared with a costume, my tailors took the liberty of creating a few extras. The exact details of the trial will be announced at the ball. For the moment, you may resume eating.”

There are cheers up and down the table, and I have to force myself to look excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be more interesting, I promise. I’ve had the idea for a long time.


	3. Masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah I don't know if this is good or cheesy or stupid but I love it. There's not enough Ukranada fluff with a plot.

I've been hastily told the rules of this trial, and now I mull them over as Victoire carefully laces up my corset. She’s the only person I allow to do this; she never laces it tightly. It’s my little loophole. I don’t have to wear a corset often, because my brother is convinced that they don’t work on me. He doesn’t know that it’s not tightened.

But it has to be a little tighter this time. On top of that, I have to bind my breasts slightly, and wear false hair to add length.

My costume is perfect: a billowing white dress with white fur lining the throat, white gloves, a string of pearls. My mask is tied under my hair, black, and covered in small gems to reflect the light. A net of black lace covers my hair, reaching down to the bottom of my ears. After that, the extensions fall free.

It’s a bit heavy, but I’ve been allowed flat shoes, so I can keep my balance.

Victoire escorts me down the stairs. I join a growing line of girls, most of them maids or farm girls from the countryside, but some of them nobility. And they all look like me.

There are differences, of course. Some of them have taken steps to make their breasts seem bigger, and some have shorter hair. Some are wearing shoes with heels. Some are wearing tightly-laced corsets, to make them more my size; others have extra padding for the same purpose. Almost all of them wear wigs. Nothing can be done about eye color, but the masks they wear are meant to disguise what makeup cannot. The biggest difference is the way we are dressed; each girl has a different costume.

We all wear gloves. Many of the servants and farm girls have hands that are raw and red with work, a dead giveaway. The only way to hide this without tipping anyone off is for all of us to hide our hands.

We stand before the closed doors of the ballroom. These girls have been instructed on the correct way to hold themselves and walk. I’m neither in the middle nor near the ends of the line.

Finally, there are trumpets, and the doors open to admit us. As we walk in, identical in posture and pace, I hear some muttering, some gasps, some confused questions. But I can’t look up. We’re all supposed to look at the ground.

We stop in a semi-circle, facing the part of the ballroom where the guests—and my family—are located. A few servants and attendants enter behind us. At the same time, we all look up.

Ivan, standing next to his fiancée, begins to explain the trial. “This next test is one of both instinct and intellect. You see before you a group of women who all look exactly the same. Only one of them is Princess Katerina.

“In a moment, the contestants may choose a girl to dance with for the first song. Whoever correctly chooses Katerina gets first place. There are three members of nobility among the girls; the contestants that choose them will receive second, third, or fourth place. After the first song, you may dance with whomever you choose.”

Ivan gestures to us. “Now, friends, choose your dance partner!”

I can’t tell which man is who. They all wear masks, some of them covering their hair. I don’t even know who to hope for.

A man approaches me. I have no choice but to dance with him. He bows as Ivan cues the music.

“It’s a beautiful night, no?” he asks in French. Even this does not give me a clue as to who my partner is; so many of us speak French that it’s barely a second language. If this stranger wishes to converse in French, I can readily respond.

“Yes, it is.”

“You seem worried, princess. Is there something wrong?”

He seems so confident that I’m the princess. Does he know, or is his guess as good as anyone else’s?

“It’s a bit intimidating. I don’t know who anyone is.” There. That’s ambiguous enough. If I were a farm girl, I would say that because I have never interacted with royalty. What I mean, however, is that I can’t figure out who is behind the masks.

“Masquerades are always a little frightening.” His voice isn’t familiar. \ Is this his real voice? An affected one? Is this simply the way he speaks French? “Anyone could be hiding behind a mask. At the same time, you yourself are hiding.”

“Yes,” I say. “I think I prefer it that way.”

He smiles. He’s a very good dancer, clearly practiced. More and more, I want desperately to know who he is.

“Is there someone you were hoping to dance with, princess?”

Should I answer? Would it give my identity away? Would it offend him? “It hardly matters, my lord. I’m dancing with you.”

“I think it does matter. A princess should have a say in who she dances with.”

The music stops. The partners separate a little. All of us girls look to Ivan for the cue.

He nods, and we all take off our masks. There are gasps as the men see who they’ve chosen. The other nobility take off a glove to identify themselves further.

Ivan walks around the room. He stops first at the lowest-ranking noblewoman and asks the contestant before her to remove his mask as well. The man nods and shows himself.

“In fourth place,” Ivan announces, “we have Sir Zwingli!”

The knight nods to the woman he danced with. Ivan moves on to the next noblewoman, and reveals Lars of the Netherlands. The highest-ranking noblewoman danced with Prince Ludwig.

Finally, my brother approaches me. To my right and left, men are grumbling, angry at themselves for being so close.

“Now I ask that the winner please remove his mask.”

The man nods and lifts up his mask. He smiles at me, and my heart skips a beat.

It’s Prince Matthew.

“First place goes to Prince Matthew of Canada!” Ivan shouts. He claps Matthew on the back. “Very good, da? How did you know it was her?”

Matthew is still looking at me. “I could never mistake her for anything other than Princess Katerina. No matter how good the other women were at acting, they were still just stand-ins.”

“Good answer!” Ivan laughs and turns back to the crowd. “Now, eat! Drink! Dance!”

Before anyone else can abandon their partners for me, Prince Matthew sweeps me onto the dance floor. All the masks are off now, handed to servants to be carried off to tables waiting along the walls. As I twirl around, I catch a glimpse of Victoire dancing with Prince Heracles. She looks nervous. Clearly, it wasn’t her idea.

I also see my brother scowling in Victoire’s direction.

I manage to push it out of my mind. I’m dancing with Prince Matthew. Now I know who I want to win. I find it hard to meet his eyes without blushing. He said so many nice things about me, it was almost embarrassing.

Throughout the night, I dance with almost all of the suitors, but every time the music changes, I hope I’ll get a chance to dance with Matthew again. And every time, it’s someone else.

* * *

After Victoire helps me out of my costume, I change into my nightgown and flop backwards onto the bed, a smile across my face. I replay the memory of dancing with Matthew again and again.

“Did you have fun, Rina?” Victoire asks. She’s smiling, too. “It’s a pity you didn’t get to dance with Prince Matthew quite as often.”

“He might have a chance, Victoire,” I say. “I really think he might have a chance.”

“Of course he does! And perhaps even more, because you’re wishing for it.”

“If only it worked like that.” I sit up and smile at her. “Did _you_ have fun, Victoire? I saw you dancing with Prince Heracles. It seemed like every single song, you two were together!”

Victoire blushes. “He wouldn’t dance with anyone else. Whenever I sat out or had to attend to something, he’d wait for me.” She closes her eyes. “Is it awful of me to wish, just for a night, that I was a princess?”

“It’s not bad at all, Victoire. If anyone deserves it, it’s you. But you don’t have to be a princess. I don’t think he cares about things like that.”

“Some people do, though,” she says. “Did you see His Majesty? Your brother looked livid.”

“It’ll be okay,” I assure her. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything. If a prince chooses to dance with you, it’s his choice, right? Ivan won’t tell Prince Heracles not to dance with you.”

“It’s not the prince I’m worried about,” Victoire mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be slower now since I've posted all the chapters I have typed and it's 12:45 on Sunday morning. 
> 
> I like to think Canada is good at remembering people because he's always forgotten. He can observe without people noticing. Plus he's head over heels in love with Ukraine, so of course he'll recognize her.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this first chapter is just setting everything up. There are more contestants than the ones listed off by Natalia, but I can’t be bothered to mention everyone.
> 
> I apologize for America’s asshole behavior. I really do like him, and he’s really not as bad as I’ve made him seem, but…well, plot. Seychelles’s background also makes me uncomfortable, but…well, subplot. I can’t help it, I can never stick to just one ship. (I am probably the only Greece/Seychelles shipper in the entire fandom.)
> 
> As per usual, updates will be sporadic. I hope to actually finish this without an enormous hiatus, but as usual, I can’t make promises. I’m sorry. One of these days, I will complete a multi-chapter fic.


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